Love Child
by green.pepsi.cola
Summary: He had never been loved. At least, not until the boy who wouldn't grow up showed him what love was. The story of how the boy who refused to grow up fell in love with the boy who wasn't even supposed to be. Mild slash.


**Love Child**

_A Short Story_

( I do not claim Peter Pan or any of the Lost Boys, nor do I own Pinocchio, briefly mentioned, nor 'Love Child'. The song this name is taken from belongs to the Supremes and the respective producers, writers, etc.)

**He had never been loved. **They called him 'Love Child.' He had no name, just his embarrassing title. The product of an unwanted pregnancy, his parents rejected him. He lived in a tiny room in their garage, and worked doing odd jobs for rent money and 'survival packages' purchased from his parents. They had two other children, the perfect atomic family. A mother, a father, a daughter, and a son. He was the secret. A slight fifteen year old, he barely scraped by. He was never 'home'. He bummed things off of strangers and slept in alleys, parks, anywhere he could find a warm place to stay. An elderly lady on his street let him stay in her spare room on weekends, but she was never home during the week, so it was then that he had no sanctuary.

**He was dirty and greasy. **He hated what he had to go through daily to sustain himself. It didn't help that he had a skinny build to begin with, nothing to keep him warm or protect him from the blows and ridicule from others. His clothes were torn and falling apart, his once-fiery-red hair slicked with grease and streaked with dirt. Nevertheless, his effervescently childish forest green eyes sparkled with anticipation for what was possible. He survived. One day all of that changed.

**One day someone appeared and took him away.** An impish boy, about fourteen (though he would never admit it), brown hair tinged with sunny blond, felt compelled to investigate a little park in London Square. So he dusted some pixie dust onto his head and thought happy thoughts. All at once he lifted into the air, taking off like a bird. He moved like the wind, until his curious, spectacular aquamarine eyes landed on a ragged young boy sitting under a lonely tree, telling himself a story about a wooden boy with a growing nose. How odd, he thought to himself. You see, Peter Pan always thought of himself. He rarely thought of anyone else. But then, who expected him to? It had never occurred to him to think that way. A boy had to take care of himself. He felt a sudden jerk behind his navel and was compelled to investigate. After all, that was what little boys were good at, wasn't it? Exploring, investigating, learning, knowing. This boy was extraordinary, sure, but after all, he was still a child at heart. He lowered himself to the ground next to the lonely looking boy. The thing he noticed immediately was the fine sprinkling of light freckles peppering the boy's small, button-like nose. "Boy, why are you sitting here? What story are you telling? I've never heard of a wooden boy before. What's your name, huh?" Peter shot his questions at rapid speed, ever confusing the boy more. "I don't know. It's called Pinocchio, and he was a puppet. And I don't have a name. Who are you? What do you want? I can't give you anything to eat, if that's what you want." He answered, still awestruck at this other boy's audacity. "I'm called Peter Pan. And I don't want any food, all I want is for you to come with me and tell that story. Will you?" Peter asked, blatantly expecting the acceptance of his glorious offer.

**The boy was very friendly. **At least, He thought so. He contemplated going with the loud, alluring boy for a moment, and he soon had his answer. If this boy had food, He didn't care where Peter took him. "I guess. Do you have any food where we're going? Where do you live, anyway?" The questions flooded back into His mind, his voice rough and cracked from lack of use. He rubbed his many bruises and stood, slowly, stretching a skin-and-bones body. The boy took a small pouch from the band of his vine belt, and a dagger, handing the dagger over and opening the pouch while speaking to Him. "Oh, yes, there's loads of food in Neverland. You go to the second star to the right, and then straight on 'til morning. Let's go!" Peter said eagerly, sprinkling some of the gold dust on His head. He found this very strange, but went along with it. If this boy wanted to give him food, and let him live with him, all in exchanged for just one story, He wasn't going to complain about Peter's seemingly silly mode of 'transportation'. "Now all you have to do is think happy thoughts, and we'll be on our way!" Peter said excitedly, rising into the air. And, being a young boy himself, He still had a few happy thoughts in his head. In a few moments they were in the air and flying across the dark night sky.

**Peter looked over at Him.** "Hey, what do you want to be called?" Peter asked. "After all, you can't very well go 'round being called nothing." "How 'bout 'Night'?" He suggested, and of course, since he had never had a name nor heard anyone called one outright, he didn't know that this was certainly not a name for a boy of Edwardian society. Then again, he was no longer a boy of Edwardian society, now was he?

**When they got to 'Neverland', as Peter put it, newly-named Night was stunned. **He tucked the dagger Peter had given him into the side of his clunky black boot, salvaged brand new from a dumpster. Everything around him was lush and green, something he'd never seen in his tiny little industrial settlement in the heart of London. He studied the hilt of the magnificent defense tool quickly, noting the black of the handle. He flew off after Peter, eager to explore the lusciousness of the land. He looked all around himself in awe, taking in the deep turquoise lagoon with the pirate ship and the heads of mermaids swimming about, the high cliffs, the deep, dark forest, the foreboding cave… so much to take in. And then there was Peter, a fascinating creature himself, seemingly lost in his own selfish boyhood, tan skin glowing, brownish-blonde hair floating in the breeze, full of himself, sure of himself. Effortlessly flying, gangly legs out behind him, arms laying limply at his sides as he soared through the air, concentrating on looking tough, yet seemingly not able to hide his excitement, his magnificent, entrancing smile. Night felt as if he could… well, he didn't know what. His feeling was strange, he'd never experienced it before. If asked to describe it, he'd probably explain it to be something like… extreme happiness, a feeling of being so high without a care in the world. He could not possibly notice how it was actually a desire, a want, a pull that would haunt him for the rest of his being. The prospect of being young forever, with this charismatic, beautiful young creature exuding so much self-confidence, Night just couldn't get his new friend off of his mind.

**The days passed, and Night began to adjust to the way of life in dear, beloved Neverland. **Each and every day, every time he laid eyes on Peter, he felt the pull behind his navel, on his mind, growing stronger and stronger with each passing moment. That feeling of being high, that feeling that he could not possibly recognize as attraction. Was attraction not supposed to happen with the opposite gender? Most boys he knew liked girls, but he never really fell into that pattern. How could he have known he as different? He couldn't possibly know. But somehow, gradually, slowly at first, then rapidly, he began to understand that he liked Peter, as someone more than a friend. Something deep inside of him began to shift, and he felt himself become a little bit different, until he felt he couldn't hold it in for much longer.

**Peter.** The name, the face, the body, the scent, the pride… it haunted him. It haunted Night like an angry demon, hungry for revenge. Night grew to hate himself. He was different, he was weird. He wasn't right in the head. Those were the thoughts speeding through him at lightning speed, confusing him, sending him swirling down into a deep, undeniable hollow. He had to get out of his mind somehow. He flew to an isolated part of the island, to the beach, uninhabited by mermaids or any other sea-faring creatures, and dove in. He felt the water rushing against him, the bubbles tickling his body all over, opened his eyes. It was beautiful underwater, with all the colours, fuzzy at the edges, distorted from the pulsation of the turquoise-tinted world around him. He wiggled his toes, moved his fingers, felt the water rush through the spaces. A whistling sound began buzzing in his ears. He was under for too long. There was no turning back now. Any minute now, he'd be gone, gone from this place, gone from the boy who gave him such trouble.

**His eyes were blacking out. **But no, his eyes were opening now, they were focusing, slowly. He wasn't in the water any longer. He was pillowed by something - someone - who was situated underneath him. Tears were falling from the magnificent aquamarine eyes, soft sobs eliciting from the down-turned mouth. The long, dirty fingers were brushing Night's shock of red hair out of his eyes, and a look of surprise covered the childishly sad-looking features of Peter Pan. "Don't do that. You'll drown. I… think I like you. I… think I like you." Over and over, whispering, repeating close to his ear. Peter Pan remembered, from not so long ago, the lips of a young girl brushing over his own, and feeling fulfilled. Remembering that moment, he slowly and steadily brushed his own lips against Night's, chastely, purely, as only the innocent are capable of achieving.

"I… think I. … love you." And then Peter Pan did something else that he hadn't done in a very long time. He embraced his friend, running his fingers through said companion's fiery red hair, and laced Night's fingers with his own.

**They said the boy who wouldn't grow up could never fall in love. But they didn't know the story in it's entirety. He did love. And he did feel. And he did care for another. He cared for Night, the love child who wasn't wanted. The boy who wouldn't grow up fell in love with the boy who wasn't supposed to be. **

_Fin._


End file.
